William King: Illidan

She thought about his words. Had there been a spell woven into them, a last curse from the fallen lord of Outland? She inspected the weave of defensive spells around her and found them intact. If Illidan had cursed her, it was with greater subtlety than any mage in history.

No. There was no magic in his words. Only truth. She had dedicated so much of her life to hunting the Betrayer that now she felt lost. She was hollow.

“He is right,” she said softly. “I feel nothing. I am nothing.” She looked at Akama’s allies. Were they responsible for this? Had they robbed her of her triumph by their presence? In a moment of near madness, she considered attacking them, but she pushed the thought from her mind.

“Farewell, champions,” she said. She barely glanced at the returning Akama as she swept from the summit.

Akama watched Maiev leave. The Broken had driven off the Betrayer’s reinforcements to give his allies time to slay Illidan, and slay him they had, with the help of the mighty night elf. He would have liked to thank her, but he was relieved she was gone. There was no telling what one so violent, impulsive, and powerful would do under these circumstances. She had reason to hate him. He was glad she had not tried to take vengeance on him as well.

Akama looked down on the body of his former master. It looked smaller now, and when he bent to lift it, it felt lighter than that of a child, as if all weight had left it with the spirit of its owner. There was still a mystery here. Where were the demon hunters? Why had they not entered the fray? He had sensed the portal Illidan had opened. If they had gone through it, where did it lead? Had they really gone to Argus? He pushed the thoughts aside. These were problems for another day. Now he must deal with the consequences of victory.

The summit looked as if demons had made war in it. Stone had melted and flowed like lava. Patches of shadow clung where no shadow should have been.

This place would need to be purified, he thought. Shrines would need to be built, services for the fallen to be held. There was a lot of work to be done here. But his people could do it. They were whole once more, and together there was nothing they could not achieve.

“The Light will fill these dismal halls once again,” he said. “I swear it.”

Then he turned and limped away from where the lord of Outland had fallen.

Vandel woke, if it could be called waking. His arm was scarred where Maiev’s blade had bit into it. His wounds had knit together, but he felt weak. His skull ached from a huge gash.

Glancing around, he saw that the training grounds were full of Aldor and Scryer fighters. They chanted victory songs, swigged from one another’s canteens, slapped one another on the back. All the rivalries between the two factions seemed to be forgotten.

Among the soldiers were the Ashtongue. There was a new confidence about the Broken. They moved with purpose, not listlessness. They eyed their surroundings with the air of owners who had newly come into their heritage.

Vandel tested his limbs. They still worked. He crawled into a patch of shadow and willed himself invisible.

“The Betrayer is dead!” shouted a blood elf triumphantly. The announcement was greeted with cheers. He could hear them echo around the vast courtyard where once the Dragonmaw had gathered their mighty steeds and demons sworn to the service of Illidan had walked.

Could it be true? Looking at the aftermath of the carnage, Vandel could not see how it could not be. He thought about the threat of the Burning Legion. What would happen now that the only leader who had ever understood its true magnitude was gone? Where were Vandel’s fellows?

He reached out with his senses, stretching them to the limits as he tried to find another demon hunter. They were all vanished, as if they had never been. Could they all be dead? Was he the last? Was Illidan’s great war finished before it had even begun?

Black despair swept over him. In the midst of the songs of triumph, he felt like weeping. These would-be heroes had no understanding of the damage they had done.

All was lost. There was nothing more to do here. He could throw himself into their midst, striking right and left until he was cut down for certain this time. He looked at the amulet he had made for Khariel so long ago. There would be no vengeance. He rose to attack, drew on the fel energies that would let him slay and slay.

Then he heard it, Illidan’s familiar voice, a whisper so faint that it might have come from the far edge of the universe or the other side of death, or from the deepest recesses of his memory.

You must be prepared.

He paused for a moment, restraining the urge to violence. The voice sounded too real to be a mere memory. It was as if the Betrayer was speaking to him as when he had summoned him for the final time. Was it possible that some remnant of his spirit survived?

There would be time to think about such things later. Now there was still work to be done. Demons to be slain. Revenge to be taken. Perhaps he could pass on the message, train others, try to be ready for the final days, when the Burning Legion reappeared seeking ultimate victory.

He drew upon his demon’s energies, stepped deeper into shadow, and vanished into the night.

WILLIAM KING is the author of more than twenty novels, an Origins Award–winning game designer, and a husband, father, and player of MMOs. His short stories have appeared in Interzone and Year’s Best SF. His Warhammer books have sold almost a million copies in English and been translated into eight languages. His novel Blood of Aenarion was shortlisted for the 2012 David Gemmell Legend Award.

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